


heaven-sent

by stherondale



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Adopted Children, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angel Wings, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Good Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper, House Party, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parental Jim "Chief" Hopper, Romance, Season/Series 02, Sister-Sister Relationship, Soft Billy Hargrove, Supernatural Elements, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stherondale/pseuds/stherondale
Summary: she’s an angel. he may as well be the devil. one would not exist without the other.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Original Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Original Female Character(s), Jim "Chief" Hopper/Original Female Character(s), Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 36





	1. 01.

She sits on the edge of the cliff face, pine trees surrounding her as though they are yearning to be close to her. Her sky is tinged a soft pink by the setting sun, and the light steals the pigment from her eyes, leaving her once green irises a strange, translucent grey. She hasn’t even noticed that he is looking at her. The heavy tread of his boots against the damp forest floor couldn’t have pulled her out of her daydream if they’d tried. Only when he clears his throat does she look up at him, surprise pressing her lips open so that a silent, subtle gasp can escape them.

“I know you,” he says gruffly, kicking his boot against a rock that falls into the ravine below them. “You’re the chief’s kid.”

He notices her hands wrap protectively around the camera sitting between her legs as though she’s afraid she might drop it despite the leather strap that keeps it hanging from her neck at all times. He can’t recall a time at school that he’s seen her without it, now that he thinks about it.

“Right,” she agrees, surprise replaced by indifference as she turns her attention back to the sky. “Can I help you, pretty boy, or did you just come to tell me who my father is? You’re about seventeen years too late on that front.”

“Alright, smart ass,” he rolls his eyes, though he’s fighting a smirk as his tongue runs over his bottom lip and he pulls a cigarette out from the carton already in his hand. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think you’re insufferable,” she responds without missing a beat. “What are you doing here, Hargrove?”

“Ouch,” He raises his eyebrows, placing the cigarette between his teeth and pulling a lighter from his jacket. “Can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve such an accolade.” He pauses. “And don’t get your panties in a twist. I was on a drive, thought I’d stop for a smoke. Didn’t realise you’d be here, ready to shoot me down.”

“Well, here I am, so either pass me a cigarette or piss off.”

He obeys to the former, sitting down — no mean feat with his tight denim jeans restricting his movement — and passing her a cigarette. She doesn’t make eye contact with him as she slips it into her mouth, though she waits patiently as he lights it. The orange glow illuminates her face as he cups his hands around it to protect it from the cool October breeze.

“Not thinkin’ about jumpin’, are you?” he questions after she takes a drag, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“I wasn’t,” she replies, “until you showed up.”

He chuckles at that, the smoke from the drag he had been taking falling out with it. “Must be hard.”

“Excuse me?” Her eyes are glassy and her nose pink in the cold.

“All that fire in you,” he elaborates, balancing his cigarette between his thumb and index finger. His cheeks dimple slightly as his grin spreads, his blue eyes sparkling as the sunlight bathes him in gold. “Must be hard to have to hide it, what with your dad being a cop and all. You wear that camera all the time to make him think you’re still a good little girl?”

Her eyes narrow, eyelashes casting shadows over her cheekbones. She still has a baby face beneath her makeup, he sees, her face all soft lines rather than sharp juts. Maybe that’s why she’s so hostile: short girls with baby faces are always the first ones to bite his head off — he learned that the hard way.

“You don’t know shit,” she says, standing up and stubbing out her cigarette with her toe. The smell of lavender wafts off her clothes as she moves. She walks a few steps, leaving him to sit alone with his legs swaying over the edge, before she turns back again. “And for the record, Hargrove, I have the camera because I like to take pictures. I’m not like you. I don’t need to pretend to be somebody I’m not.”

Another involuntarily laugh escapes his lips as he glances back at her, his palms pressed against pine needles and his cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Whatever you say, angel.”

She’s already walking away when she calls back, “I’m no angel.”


	2. 02.

“Look at that,” Hopper says by way of greeting, a disapproving look on his face as Frances shuts the door behind her. He and El are sat at the table, microwave dinners still in their plastic containers in front of them. He doesn’t even bother to use goddamn plates anymore. “She decided to grace us with her presence.”

In response, Frances flashes him a sarcastic grin, taking a seat at the table. The chair wobbles under her weight, far from sturdy. The furniture had been here almost as long as the cabin itself, and it wasn’t hard to tell with the damp wood that had never dried and the looming feeling that all of it would crumble beneath them if they so much as sneezed too loudly.

El sits opposite her, picking gingerly at her peas with a fork—a metal one, thank god. Frances has saved a real smile for her, and El returns it, though even now, after almost a year, her big brown eyes are like a deer’s caught in headlights.

“You wanna tell me where you’ve been?” Hopper questions, mouth half-full with food as he scrapes around for the last few pieces. “You promised me you’d be here tonight, Frances.”

“I was with Jonathan. I lost track of time.” The lie came naturally now, though she and Jonathan barely spent any time together outside of school anymore.

“Funny, since he was looking for you on my way home. Told me you made a dash for it after school. You kids still play hide and seek or are you lying to me?”

She pauses, blushing despite herself. “Maybe we were feeling nostalgic.”

“Don’t lie to me, Frances.” His sarcasm was gone, replaced by a severity that surprised even her. “You said you’d come straight home after school. The kid needs you here.”

“I’m not a babysitter,” she spat back, standing up and causing the chair’s legs to screech against the floorboards. “I was busy.”

“Doing what? Chain-smoking?” He drops his fork and towers over her, his blue eyes piercing as her cheeks turn a deeper shade of red. Gravy has splattered against his shirt. “I can smell it on you.”

Frances raises an eyebrow. “You sure that’s not your own breath?”

Inhaling sharply, Hopper closes his eyes for a moment, fists pressed against the table angrily. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Stop,” El whispers, drawing Frances’s attention away from her father.

Hopper pinches the bridge of his nose, and when he opens his eyes and looks at her again, his eyes are steely. “You’re grounded.” His voice is low, steady. “I want you home at three every night for the rest of the week. No going out this weekend, either. You disobey me again and that camera can find a home in my locked desk. How’s that?”

Frances clutches the camera instinctively, narrowing her eyes. “Fine,” she says finally, pushing her chair back under the table and walking to her room. She closes the door behind her, letting out a ragged breath as she pulls the camera from her neck and places it on her desk.

Her eyes drift to the window, where the forest is bathed in shadows and the moonlight floods through the branches, casting fractured, pointed silhouettes onto her face. The nature used to be a comfort to her, but now she can’t help but imagine them creeping in the darkness, waiting for blood.

A small knock on the door breaks her out of her reverie, and she jumps, shutting the curtains quickly and turning on her lamp to light the room in a soft, rosy glow. When she turns around, she finds El standing in the doorway, hand still on the door knob as though she’s debating whether she should come in.

“Hey,” Frances greets softly. El presses her lips together — her version of a shy smile — and enters, the door clicking shut behind her. “I’m sorry for fighting in front of you. You shouldn’t have to put up with that. And I’m sorry for not coming home earlier.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugs, planting herself sheepishly on Frances’s bed, causing a few of the teddies propped against the wall to tumble.

“No, it’s not.” Frances collapses beside her, taking her hand. “It wasn’t your fault. If you weren’t here, we’d find something else to argue about.”

“Like?”

Frances sighs. “Like how he drinks too much and is never around. Like how after Sa…”  
She swallows, her sister’s name getting stuck in her throat.

“Sarah?” El questions, understanding.

At the sound of her name, tears prick in Frances’s eyes. She blinks them back, looking away from El as she replies. “Yes.”

“You miss her.”

“Yes,” Frances breathes, finding the one photograph she has left of herself and Barb tucked in her mirror opposite. They’re smiling at the request of Barb’s mother, a documentation of their first day of high school. Frances’s right arm has fallen naturally over Barb’s shoulders, and she stands on her tiptoes to maintain the pose while Barb stands hunched, books tucked under her arm and glasses she hadn’t yet grown into slightly askew. “I miss a lot of people.”

El follows her gaze, squeezing Frances’s hand tightly. It snaps Frances out of her daze, and she wipes her eyes quickly, uncaring if it smudges her cheap mascara. “You wanna read before bed tonight? Make up for me coming in late?”

Eleven nods, grabbing the book they were in the middle of from the bedside table and handing it to Frances. The book was tattered, the spine near falling apart, but it had been Sarah’s and Frances had never been able to bring herself to throw it away. At least now she had some use for it.

There is a sadness in her voice, thick and heavy as though something is caught in her throat, as she reads to El softly. She hears her door creak halfway through, feels her father’s watchful eyes on her, but she makes no effort to turn around.

She finds herself wondering when her family became this.


	3. 03.

The cul-de-sacs are bustling with groups of trick-or-treaters as Jonathan parks outside the house. Frances sits beside him, touching up her makeup simply to busy her hands so that she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the awkwardness between the two of them. Her father had decided to lift her grounding on account of it being Halloween, though he thought that she and Jonathan were taking Will trick or treating, not rocking up at a house party full of drunken teens.

Even from the car she can see the party already in full swing, with familiar faces loitering in the front yard, drinking from kegs upside down and vomiting in the bushes. Reluctantly, she pulls her camera from her neck, knowing it would only get damaged otherwise. “You mind if I leave this in here?”

“No, of course not,” Jonathan says, hands still gripping the steering wheel despite the fact they were no longer moving.

“You sure you don’t wanna stay with Will?” she asks, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “I don’t mind, honestly. I know this stuff isn’t usually your thing.”

“Didn’t used to be yours, either.” There is no venom in his voice, though he says it under his breath as though it’s something he’s trying to suppress.

Frances takes a deep breath, focusing her attention on the waning moon above them. Despite the laughter and music outside, the car felt too quiet. “If you have something to say, Jonathan, you should say it.”

“You don’t think things have been weird between us lately?” he says, finally loosening his grip from the steering wheel and turning in his seat to face her. “You seem distant. We barely talk. I don’t even know if we’re …”

“If we’re what?” She blinks, though she knows what he wants to say. Together.

“I don’t know, Frannie,” he sighs, pressing his back to the seat and looking up as though maybe God could help him spit it out. “Are we okay?”

She pauses, knowing that if she says yes it would be a lie. “Look, it’s no secret that things have changed between us. I just have stuff going on, okay?”

“Like what?”

“Just stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“You used to tell me everything,” he mumbled. It’s true and Frances knows it: Eleven hiding out in her father’s cabin is the first secret she’s ever kept from him in their ten years of friendship and two years of romance.

Something else catches his eye, drawing his attention away from the car and what’s happening inside of it. That Something is Nancy Wheeler, walking hand in hand with Steve Harrington across the lawn. They stop to greet a few of their friends before disappearing into the orange glow of the hallway. Only when they’re out of sight does Jonathan focus on Frances again.

“If you want an out, take it,” Frances says passive-aggressively, placing her hand on the door so that she can make a quick escape if necessary. “If you don’t want this anymore—”

He frowns. “Who said I didn’t want this?”

“Do you?”

“Do you? You’re the one pulling away from me.”

Frances scoffs. “Don’t put this all on me, Jonathan. You just spent a solid minute watching Nancy walk into a house while I was sitting right next to you.”

You see his muscles twitch with tension and he straightens up. “We’re gonna do this again?”

“No,” she rolls her eyes, opening the door, “we’re not.”

Without another word, she steps out, slamming the car door behind her. Jonathan is motioning to her in frustration, but she ignores him, marching into the party and getting pulled into a current of bodies. The bitter stench of beer lingers on sweaty clothes as she pushes through them, waving at a few people who are sober enough to recognise her.

She heads straight for the punch bowl, grabbing herself a plastic cup and pouring it carefully. Halloween music is blasting through the speakers in the corner and she sees Steve and Nancy bobbing along to it, though Nancy’s expression is tense as always. A year ago, Frances would have been dancing with them. A year ago, Barb would have been there, too. Now that she was gone and Jonathan was constantly ogling Nancy when he thought she wasn’t looking, they had no reason to stay friends.

“Look at that,” a voice shouts from behind Frances. “Our little grasshopper made it to the party. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you at one ‘a these things.”

Frances grimaces at the nickname, turning around to find Tommy standing so close that she has to press herself to the kitchen counter to avoid his hot breath hitting her face.

“Byers taken you off your leash?” Carol chimes in from behind, an arrogant smirk playing on her lips.

Behind them stands a beer-stained Billy Hargrove, his torso bare beneath his leather jacket. He gives Frances the once over, his tongue swiping across his lips the way it always does before he takes a swig of his drink.

“Don’t you ever get bored of yourselves?” Frances questions monotonously, gulping down her own drink quickly.

“Come on, Frannie, we’re kidding,” Tommy laughs, pulling Frances into the living room where the music is deafening, but not as deafening as the laughter and shouting. “You gonna dance with us or what?”

“Don’t be stupid, Tommy,” Carol shouts over the music, looking smug. “Her boyfriend is lurking over there in the corner.”

Frances follows her point and finds that she’s right: he is standing in the corner, but he isn’t looking at her. He’s looking past her at Nancy, who’s pouring herself a drink in the kitchen. “I don’t think he’s gonna be my boyfriend for much longer,” she says without thinking.

Her view of them is intercepted by Billy, who is skillfully juggling four cups in his hands. He holds one out for Frances and she takes it gratefully, chugging it down and wincing at the burn it leaves in her throat. “Trouble in paradise, angel?”

“No paradise,” she retorts. “Just trouble.”

“You need to let go. Enjoy yourself,” he smirks. “Or is 'fun’ not in your vocabulary?”

“It is,” she hits back, finishing her drink before Tommy and Carol have even started theirs. “My definition is probably just a little different than yours.”

“Come on,” Tommy urges. The song changes as he’s speaking, Duran Duran earning a cheer from the crowd surrounding them. Carol throws her arms around Tommy, her drink spilling from her cup. Tommy doesn’t notice the stain it leaves. “It’s a party. Dance.”

“Yeah, Hopper,” Billy repeats, grinning as he laces his fingers, clad with leather, finger-less gloves, through Frances’s. “The world won’t end if you dance. Promise. No one has to know you actually had fun at a party.”

She glowers but, after one last glance to find that Jonathan is no longer standing in his earlier position, lets Billy tug her about. Laughter spills from her as he twirls her under his arm and throws her into a less than graceful dip. Dizziness causes her to stumble as the alcohol makes her feel suddenly light. She falls into his bare chest, her hands brushing against his hot skin, sticky where the beer had dried.

“Look at that,” he says, grinning at her as they begin to sway. “She laughs.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Frances responds, smiling despite herself. “It’s the spiked punch. Has an adverse effect on me.”

“Then I’d better get you some more. I’ll be right back.”

Frances nods, taking a seat to catch her breath. Tommy and Carol are no longer in sight, and she searches again to see if Jonathan has noticed her dancing with Billy. Instead, she sees Steve marching through the crowd, his face pale. He walks straight out of the door, but not before his shoulder collides with Jonathan’s, who she now sees standing against the wall, looking lost. His eyes follow Steve’s retreating figure, and in a moment, he’s walking the other way.

Frances searches the room again to see if Nancy is anywhere around. She isn’t, and even in her drunken state, Frances thinks the likelihood is that she’s the reason for whatever just happened—which means she is the person that Jonathan is looking for.

Without expecting it, Frances is pulled from the couch by two forceful hands, and she finds it difficult to get her bearings as she’s spun around through the crowd. The hands belong to Will, one of Tommy’s friends and someone she sometimes talks to in class. He looks more wasted than her, yet is somehow steadier on his feet. Feeling numb, she let’s herself be dragged around like a rag-doll and nods as though she can hear what he’s saying as he leans into her ear to whisper something. Her eyes are still on the kitchen, though, waiting for Jonathan’s return. She hasn’t even noticed that Billy is dancing without someone else now, their drinks long forgotten.

“Stop,” she whispers as nausea begins to crawl in the pit of her stomach, pulling herself away from Will and away from the crowds. Her forehead is damp with sweat, her chest tight. She’s about to head into the kitchen for some space to breathe when Jonathan appears from the hallway, propping an intoxicated Nancy up. He walks her out of the back door without so much as looking in Frances’s direction. She follows them slowly, stumbling to the window so that she can watch them leave. When they get onto the lawn, Jonathan picks Nancy up, carrying her to his car bridle style. He’s never done that for Frances, not even when they were nothing more than friends. He despises her drunken self too much, despises how stupid and sloppy it makes her - and yet clearly it works in Nancy’s favour.

Her heart sinks as he drives away, realising that not only is her boyfriend in love with someone else, but he’s left her with no way of getting home, either.

A voice in her ear causes her to jump. “I haven’t forgotten about our drinks. Just got distracted.”

Billy is holding two cups, wearing a stupid smirk that makes her scowl. She knows it’s weak, though, when she realises that her cheeks are damp. His smile falters when he sees, too.

“Woah, what’s wrong?”

Nothing,“ she mutters. "Forget the drinks. I need to go.”

“Go where?” He puts the drinks down on the counter, following as she dodges a few drunken people crowding around the punch bowl. The cold October air hits her all at once as she steps out, and she shivers, her ears beginning to throb in the sudden quiet of the night. “Hopper?”

“Don’t call me that,” she spits, crossing her arms over her chest to keep warm as she trips across the lawn. “Everyone calls my dad Hopper, not me. My name is Frances.”

“Alright, Frances.” His fingers wrap around her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“No,” she replies bluntly, pulling her arm from Billy’s grasp and looking around disconcertedly. Only now does she realise that she has no way of getting home. “Just leave me alone, Hargrove.”

“That’s not gonna happen. You’re drunk.”

“Everyone’s drunk,” she spits back. “It’s a fucking party. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to loosen up, have fun? Am I having enough fucking fun now, Billy?”

Billy frowns, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. He doesn’t seem cold despite his exposed chest. “Jesus, what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” Frances says, her voice quietening as she realises how crazy she must seem to everyone else. If she wasn’t still buzzed, she knows would have been embarrassed and blushing by now. “I just need to go home.”

“Okay, fine, he nods, his blue eyes gleaming in the moonlight as he focuses on Frances. "Is your boyfriend drivin’ you home?”

The mention of him causes tears to sting her eyes again and she looks away sadly. “Not my boyfriend anymore.”

“Jesus Christ, how long was I gone?”

“He took Nancy Wheeler home. He … he left me. We’re over.” Saying it out loud, her breath visible against the cold, makes it feel real. “That means we’re over, right?”

“He left you stranded and drunk at a party to take home some other chick.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, tightening his jacket across his torso. “Doesn’t sound promising.”

She nods, inhaling shakily. “It’s been over for a while. I just thought he cared about me more than this.” Realising her own vulnerability, she straightens up, wiping her cheeks quickly. “Not your problem, though. Sorry.”

“I can give you a ride. I haven’t drank anything for a while. I’m sober enough.”

“No—”

“C'mon,” he points at his blue Camaro behind you, “my cars right there. The party’s shit anyway. I don’t plan on stickin’ around.”

“You don’t have to do that, Hargrove.”

“I’m not gonna leave you here. I’m not a complete dick.”

Frances purses her lips at the jab, but follows him to the car anyway. “Could'a fooled me.”

He’s about to unlock the passenger side door when he pauses. “You wanna walk?”

A shadow of a smile graces her lips and he shakes his head, holding the door open for her to slide in. “Just don’t puke.”

Frances is surprised by how well-kept the inside of the car is, though the smell of cigarette smoke clings to leather seats and causes a tickle in the back of her throat. Billy slides into the driver’s seat, turning on the radio. Danger Zone blasts through the speakers, and he turns down the volume until it’s nothing more than a low hum before slipping the key into the ignition.

Despite the company, Frances relaxes into her seat as she puts her seat-belt on and the car groans into motion beneath her. It’s warmer in here than the party, and her numb hands begin to tingle with feeling again.

“Where do you live?”

“The trailer by the lake,” she replies tiredly, pressing her head against the cold window pane. “You know it?”

“Yeah, I know it.”

She watches as his restless, ringed fingers tap against the steering wheel. There isn’t much else to say between them for a few moments, and a silence falls between them, concealed only by the music. It isn’t uncomfortable, though Frances can’t help but feel weary of Hawkin’s newest wannabe bad boy—maybe because the alcohol-induced buzz is now more of a distant hum in her veins, weighing her down rather than making her feel light.

“No camera tonight,” Billy points out when the road thins and the trees thicken, signalling that they were almost home.

“Shit,” Frances curses, holding a hand to her head. “I left it in his car.”

“There goes a clean break, huh?”

“That was never gonna happen, anyway,” she sighs. “I don’t even think he knows it’s over yet.”

“What do you see in him anyway? Isn’t he kind of a loser?”

“Let’s just … not have this conversation.”

“Alright,” he agrees, parking up as they reach the trailer. The lights are off, but that isn’t surprising. It’s barely lived in now, only used so that nobody gets suspicious and finds out about El. “Your dad home?”

“No. He’s working,” she lies, unfastening her seat-belt. “Listen, thanks for this.”

“You still think I’m insufferable?”

“Depends,” she responds, laughter glistening in her eyes. “Did you do this just so I’d take it back?”

He shrugs. “Guess you’ll never know for sure. You good from here?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” She opens the door, stepping out unsteadily. “Thanks, Hargrove.”

He gives her a wave of dismissal, winding down her window to call her back. “For the record, angel, I think you can do way better than Jonathan Byers.”

She turns back, rooting through her purse for her keys. “Yes.”

“Yes?” he repeats, looking up at her through his eyelashes as she gets further away.

“Yes,” she says. “I still think you’re insufferable.”

If Billy replies, this time, she doesn’t hear it.


	4. 04.

Billy eyes the Ford LTD sitting in the school parking lot hungrily, shrugging on his denim jacket and adjusting the collar. When he flashes a harsh scowl, he's not sure if it's directed towards Byers' run down piece of shit, the blisteringly cold morning, or the fact that his nose still isn't accustomed to the smell of cow shit from the nearby fields.

His pocket knife weighs heavily in is palm, and he throws it up in the air with a smoothness that he wishes someone had seen as he struts towards the Ford. The first bell, muffled from this distance, rings inside the school, and the last of the loiterers disappear from the parking lot all at once. Only Billy remains, crouching by the driver's side door so that he isn't caught by any teachers on the lookout for truants.

Without wasting any time, he uses his pen-knife to unlock the car door, letting out a proud. "A-ha!" when he's successful. Looking around to make sure that he isn't being watched, he crawls into the car, searching the front and back seats with frantic hands. His tongue sticks out in concentration as he opens the glove box, rummaging again until he finds the cold, heavy metal lens and the camera that's attached to it.

"There we go," he mutters, examining the camera and the brown neck strap. IF LOST, RETURN TO FRANCES HOPPER is written in black ink on the inside of the leather in block capitals, along with a phone number beneath it. Billy grins, shoving the camera in his backpack quickly before sliding out of the car again. As he slams the door and turns around, he comes to a halt.

Jonathan Byers is striding towards him with his scrawny little legs, his mouth pressed into a thin line and his tired eyes glimmering with a hint of anger. "What the hell are you doing in my car?"

"Relax, Byers," Billy taunts, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "A little birdy told me you had something that didn't belong to you in there. I'm just making sure it's returned."

"What are you talking about?" Jonathan asks, opening the car door again to see if Billy has left any evidence of his break in.

Billy pulls the top of the camera from his bag, shaking it lightly with a smirk. "Hopper's camera. I was doin' you a favour."

Jonathan's eyes narrow. "She's my girlfriend. I can return it to her myself."

"Wouldn't be so sure a' that, buddy." He pats Jonathan on the chest, the force causing him to fall ungracefully against the car. "She isn't too happy you took Harrington's girl home last night."

Billy can't help but find satisfaction in the way that Jonathan pales, tightening his grip on his backpack nervously. "Well, maybe that's a conversation that Frannie and I can have when I give back her camera."

"Nah," Billy winces dramatically. "Not a good idea, buddy. You know how chicks can be. Better to let her cool off first."

"And since when did you become an expert in my girlfriend's needs?" Jonathan hits back, pushing Billy in the chest and attempting to grab the camera. Billy holds it in the air, taking advantage of his taller stature. "C'mon, just give me the damn camera."

"Or what?" Billy challenges, his blue eyes bright with mischief. "Ya gonna hit me, Byers?"

"What the hell is your problem, man?"

"I don't have a problem," he grins, licking his lips as though satisfied with himself. "I'm just helpin' you out; saving you the earful she'd be givin' you otherwise."

When Jonathan's fingers get too close to the camera, Billy throws him into the car with a bang, pressing his forearm to the other boy's neck roughly.

"Don't worry, Byers. I'll make sure it gets to her safe and sound. You just focus on your other chick. Nancy, right?"

"You're a dick," Jonathan retorts, pushing Billy away.

He stumbles back, laughing. "Takes one to know one."

Jonathan points at the camera. His face is bright red now with anger and exertion. "You better make sure that camera gets to Frannie safe and sound. I swear to God, if it doesn't, you're paying for a replacement."

"Yeah, yeah," Billy calls over his shoulder. "I'll be sure to give Frances your regards." 

* * *

Frances's head has been pounding all day. Last night feels like a distant memory, but she knows from the way that Jonathan and Nancy have been avoiding her that it isn't. Somewhere between third and fifth period, her stomach begins to twist with anxiety, knowing that she needs to get her camera back, knowing that when she does it will be over.

When the bell rings to signal the end of the day, she runs to the bathroom without thinking twice, glad to find that nobody else is in there. She grips the edges of the sink with trembling fingers, palms clammy as she looks at herself in the mirror.

Her pale skin is near translucent, purple veins visible beneath the surface, but that isn't what worries her. What worries her is her eyes: usually green, they're now a harsh amber.

"Not again," she whispers, running the tap and splashing icy cold water over her face frantically. When she looks up, water dripping from her nose, her eyes are green again.

Her shoulders are burning and she slips her backpack off, inhaling sharply and trying not to think of the last time this happened, on the anniversary of Sarah's death a couple of months ago.

"It's not real," she convinces herself as the colour returns to her face gradually. "You're not crazy. You're just stressed ... and talking to yourself ... in the school bathroom. That's completely normal."

Sighing, she shakes her head, splashing her face one last time before slipping her backpack back on. When she steps back out onto the corridor, it's almost empty - no chance of catching Jonathan. She runs out before it's too late, the mid-afternoon sun blinding and the cold biting her damp cheeks. The parking lot is still relatively full, and she spots Jonathan's car in its usual parking spot. She's about to head towards it when the sight of Nancy Wheeler sliding into the passenger side stops him.

Her heart sinks. 

"Looking for this?" a familiar voice questions from behind her.

She watches Jonathan reverse out before turning around, worrying at her lip and trying to remain calm despite the fact her shoulders are still tingling with a strange heat. Billy stands in front of her, his hand dangling her camera by its strap carelessly. At the sight of it, she relaxes, snatching it from him before he drops it.

"How the hell did you get this? Did Jonathan give it to you?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets, a hint of a proud smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. "Nah. Well, kinda. He caught me breaking into his car."

Frances frowned. "You broke into his car to get my camera? Why?"

"I was bored," Billy shrugged. "Felt like brushin' up on my lock-picking skills. You're welcome."

"Oh," she nodded, slipping the camera around her neck and sweeping back her tangled hair. "So this is all part of your bad boy persona."

"I certainly wasn't trying to be nice if that's what you're thinkin'." He pulls out his cigarette carton and slips one into his mouth, lighting it quickly and taking a drag.

"Didn't think it was," Frances rolls her eyes, "but thanks anyway."

"Don't sweat it, angel."

"Stop calling me that, Hargrove," she groans, walking a few steps ahead of him. "And don't break into anymore cars on my account. My dad's a cop, remember?"

"Why, you got anymore cheating boyfriends stealing your property?" He taunts, his denim-clad shoulder brushing hers as he catches up with her. The smell of tobacco rolls off him.

"No, just the one." She halts, turning to face him. "Look, I appreciate you taking me home last night and getting my camera back, but this whole thing isn't gonna work on me. I don't need you looking out for me, and I definitely don't need you involving yourself in my relationship. I don't know what your angle is—"

"Jesus, Frances, don't flatter yourself," he interrupts, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and flicking the ash into a puddle of water beside them. "I don't have an angle, and I'm not interested in your dysfunctional relationship. I did you a favour. If it bothers you so much, it won't happen again."

Frances shakes her head at his harsh tone, fingers still trembling with the memory of the bathroom. "Fine."

"Great. I gotta go." He stubbs his cigarette out and shuffles on his feet uncomfortably. "You need a ride, or will that get you all hot an' bothered again?"

"No, thanks," she replies, squinting in the sunlight.

"Then I guess I'll be seein' you."

With that, he walks away, heading towards the Camaro and getting in. He spares her a final glance through the window before heavy music starts booming from his radio and he pulls out, leaving Frances standing in the parking lot alone.

"Let's hope not," she mutters under breath.


	5. 05.

Frances hears her father’s shouts before the cabin is even in view. Without thinking twice, she sets off in a run, twigs snapping beneath her feet as she dodges the trip wire. She clutches her camera firmly in her hands to prevent it slapping against her stomach, wind rushing past her as she speeds up.

“You’re like Papa!” she hears El scream as she gets closer, and dread causes her heart to drop. She knows her father, knows he won’t take well to a comment like that. She can’t hear her father’s reply, only El shouting a few moments later, “I hate you!”

“… I’m not too crazy about you, either!” Hopper responds.

“Shit,” Frances mutters, slowing down to catch her breath. She closes her eyes and inhales, blocking the screams out for a moment before she finally enters the cabin. Neither Hopper nor El notice her despite the creak of the wooden door, too busy screaming at one another.

“Brat,” Hopper says, throwing a book at El. El raises a hand to stop it, suspending it in mid-air as blood trickles from her nose. She tosses it back at him forcefully, hitting him in the stomach.

“Hey!” he exclaims in bewilderment, his eyes wide as he looks at El.

“Stop it!” Frances interrupts, finally gaining their attention as she stands between the two of them, her hands held up in caution. “What the hell is going on?”

El ignores her, marching off. Hopper trails behind her, passing Frances without acknowledgement. “Don’t you dare walk away from me, kid.”

The couch is shoved into his shin by an invisible force and he trips. “Hey!”

The last Frances sees of El before she slams her door shut without touching it is her eyes blazing with anger. “El!” Frances pleads, but it’s too late.

“Open the damn door!” Hopper yells, banging on the wood forcefully. “You wanna go out in the world? You better grow up. Grow the hell up!”

A scream erupts from the bedroom, and without warning, the window panes shatter in their frames, shards of glass flying into the cabin. Frances is unable to duck in time and a small piece of glass scratches her cheek. She barely feels the sting, though she can feel the dampness as blood begins to ooze from the wound, and presses her hand to her face in shock. Hopper curses, kicking the wall with his heavy boot before running his hands over his face.

“What the hell happened?” Frances questions when she is able to form a coherent sentence.

“The damn kid went to see Mike today,” Hopper sighed, his eyes softening when he sees that Frances is hurt. “Jesus Christ, are you alright?” He’s on her in a second, pulling her hands away from the cut so that he can inspect it.

“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.” She struggles out of his grip, glass crunching beneath her shoes as she heads to the kitchen and grabs a towel to stop the bleeding. “Look, I know you’re just looking out for her, but you need to go easy on her. She’s just a kid, and she can’t see her friends. Imagine how that must feel.”

“Did you miss the part where she blew out the fuckin’ windows?” He pointed to the now empty frames dramatically. “What if that glass had hit your eye?”

“It didn’t,” Frances sighs. “I’ll talk to her, okay?”

“No,” he shakes his head, rubbing his stubbly chin in frustration. “Let her cool down first. She’s … dangerous.”

“She’s not dangerous,” Frances replies. “She’s afraid and alone. She doesn’t understand that you’re keeping her safe. Just let me try.”

Hopper motions to the door dismissively. “Fine, you think you can handle her, Mary Poppins? Be my guest.”

Frances treads back to El’s door, knocking gently. “El, it’s just me,” she calls when the door doesn’t budge. “I understand why you’re mad and afraid. Why don’t we talk about it?”

“Go away,” El demands after a moment, her voice muffled.

“El, please—”

“Go. Away!”

There’s enough power in El’s voice for Frances to know that she isn’t helping matters and if she pushes her anymore, the cabin might come down in a heap of ash and rubble. She turns to her father, disappointment in her eyes. He shrugs, planting himself on the couch despite the fact that it’s no longer in its usual spot. “I told you. She’s impossible.”

“Cut her some slack. She’s been through a lot.”

“Yeah, well, haven’t we all?” he huffs, sadness flickering over his features. By the time he looks up again, it’s gone. “Listen, I’ll handle this. You’re better off staying in the trailer tonight.”

“You sure? I don’t mind staying.”

“No. You don’t need to deal with this. Go home.”

Frances nods, placing a hand on her father’s shoulder as he puts his head in his hands. “You’re doing your best. I know this isn’t easy.”

He places his hand over hers, rubbing her hand with the pad of his thumb. “Thanks, kid.”

She flashes one last, solemn look at the door before making a move to go. Her father’s voice stops her. “Hey, Fran. You okay? You look a little pale.” He’s turned around in his chair, his blue eyes flooding with concern. His cheeks are flushed with the remnants of his rage.

“Yeah,” she lies. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Look, I know I haven’t been all that available recently and we haven’t spent much time together. That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me. I’m still your old man. I still care about you more than anything else. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that, Dad.” She hesitates, worrying at her lip as he waits expectantly. “Jonathan and I broke up.”

“Sweetie—”

“No, it’s okay. It was a long time coming,” she says quickly. “You sure you don’t want me to try again with El?”

He looks at Fran and then at El’s closed door.

“No. Better give her some space tonight. Go home, kid. Get some rest. Enjoy the peace.”

* * *

Frances doesn’t head home right away, instead following the overgrown trail to the ravine. She takes a few pictures as she goes, finding solace in the click of her camera, the repetitive action of winding back the film. Shadows loiter in her peripheral vision as the sun begins to set, and she tries to ignore them, ignore the feeling of something encroaching in on her. She’s relieved when she gets to the open road, but only for a moment. For the second time this week, she has company. Billy leans against the hood of his car, his back turned towards her as he watches the sun go down. She can just make out the orange glow of a cigarette in his mouth.

Instinctively, her hands find her camera and she captures the view, the soft silhouette of the golden-tinged boy in front of the bleeding, pink sky. The sound of her shutter clicking alerts him of her presence, and she smiles guiltily at being caught. “You mind?”

He shrugs, smirking, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I always knew I was your muse.”

She shakes her head at his arrogance, deciding to play along as she crosses the road and meets him by his car. “Well, it’s only right since you got it back for me.”

He doesn’t react, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes are focused on the view in front of him. Frances frowns as she realises that they’re gleaming with moisture and red-rimmed as though he’s been crying. His long, thick eyelashes are moist, too, against the fading sunlight, his lips pink and raw as though he’s been chewing them. Atop his cheekbone sits a purple bruise that she knows wasn’t there earlier.

“Are you alright?” she questions carefully. His shirt is buttoned up wrong, the cuffs of his denim jacket unrolled and covering half of his hands. His knuckles aren’t bruised – if he was hit, it was one-sided.

“Peachy,” he responds, smoke rolling from his mouth. He offers her a cigarette, looking at her for the first time and faltering. She’s forgotten the cut on her own cheek, but she feels the sting of it now as if for the first time. “Are you?”

“Peachy,” she repeats, a soft smile on her lips. “No, thanks,” she says to the cigarette.

Billy shuffles down slightly so that there’s room for Frances on the hood. She leans onto it, glad to take the weight off her feet, her eyes watering against the cold breeze.

“You come up here a lot?” he asks, words muffled by the cigarette. Up close, she can smell a slight hint of alcohol on his breath and realises that there’s a bottle of whisky planted on the other side of him. He’s not drunk, though, not yet.

“Best place to watch the sunset,” she shrugs. “I used to think of this place as my little secret. Guess I’m gonna have to find somewhere else now.”

“My company that bad?” His voice is hoarse, as though he’s been shouting. Frances can’t help but look at him again with concern, and he can’t help but refuse to return her gaze.

“Billy, what happened?” she whispers delicately.

“Nothin’ you need to concern yourself with, angel. Why? You worried?”

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

“Please,” he grins, “it’s cute.”

“Shut up,” she scoffs, pulling her jacket closer to her torso as the wind picks up again. The valley below is dotted with amber and gold leaves that gleam against the sunset. The dead leaves blow around them, rustling. She takes a deep breath in, her soul soothed for the first time in days. She thinks that perhaps he feels it, too, because for a while neither of them say a word, and neither of them need to. The silence is like a blanket, comforting and warm, safe.

Of course, Billy is the one to break it as he stubs out his cigarette with his boot and shoves his hands into his pockets. “So, you talk to your boyfriend yet?”

“Nope,” she sighs. “He’s too busy with Nancy.”

“Dick,” he curses, shaking his head. His tangled, blonde curls ruffle as he does.

“Yeah.”

“How long were the two a’ you together?”

She exhales, ignoring the lump in her throat. “Two years. Before that we were best friends.”

His eyebrows arch in surprise. “Jesus.”

“It’s not just his fault. I can’t pretend like he’s a terrible person for doing this to me,” she says, and this time she’s the one who is unable to meet Billy’s eyes. “I’ve been distant. I basically pushed him right into her. If you don’t give a guy what he wants, he’s gonna find it somewhere else, right?”

“Doesn’t matter what you did, Fran.” It’s the first time he’s called her that, and she likes the way her shortened name rolls on his tongue like honey. “Doesn’t give him an excuse to chase after another girl and leave you drunk at a party.”

“I wasn’t that drunk.”

He chuckles. “You weren’t sober, either.”

Her cheeks flush with colour, and she smiles. “Better he didn’t see me like that, anyways. He always hated the way I was when I got drunk.”

“Like I said,” he rolls his eyes, “Dick.” Billy takes a swig straight out of the whiskey bottle before offering it to Frances. “I for one don’t give a shit. You wanna go for round two?”

“No, thanks.” The sun seems to disappear behind the horizon all at once, and she shivers in the grey twilight. “And neither should you if you’re driving. I gotta go.”

“I can drive you,” he offers, twisting the lid back on the bottle and pulling his car keys from his pockets. “That is, if you’re not gonna bite my head off for offering.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to. Feel like a drive, anyway.”

Frances sighs, hesitant. He’s already holding the door open for her, a small, hopeful smile on his lips. She can still make out the sadness lying just beneath his expression, though, muted and dull, but there.

“Alright,” she agrees finally, sliding into the passenger’s seat. The leather is cold against her legs. “But only ‘cos I’m freezing out here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he retorts. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, angel.”


	6. 06.

The gentle hum of the engine is peaceful as the Camaro cruises through Hawkins. Billy doesn’t try to cover it with his music the way he usually would. After the night he’s had, he’s grateful for the quiet. He’s unable to forget the way his father’s fist collided with his face earlier, his cheek still throbbing painfully. His jaw aches, too, and he realises he’s been clenching it for hours. He relaxes it now as best he can, his attention drawn away from it entirely when they pass a bunch of wilted flowers placed randomly on the side of the road. There are unlit candles, too, the wax melted into the concrete. 

“Someone die there or somethin’?” he asks without thinking.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Frances flinch and regrets asking. “Yeah. Her name was Barb.”

“Did you know her?” He glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him, her head turned away as she gazes out of the window.

“She was my best friend.”

Jesus. I’m—” He sucks in a breath, his grip tightening on the steering wheel sub-consciously. Sorry, he wants to say, but somehow the word doesn’t do it justice. “What happened to her?”

“She was killed.” She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear, her eyes hardening as she turns them back on the road ahead. She still won’t look at him.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Did they catch ‘em?”

“No.” She shakes her head, her voice cracking. Her chest is heaving as though she’s suppressing a sob or is struggling to breathe. He shuffles in his seat, unsure what to do or say. He doesn’t need to force anything out: she continues before the right words come. “I should have been there that night. She begged and begged for me to come to this stupid party with her at Steve Harrington’s house. Nancy was forcing her. She wasn’t really part of that crowd and she didn’t wanna be alone, always said it was easier for her when I was there. She died alone.”

“It’s not your fault,” Billy replies softly. It’s easier for him to be soft in the dark; easier to allow himself to sound as though he gives a damn. “You couldn’t have known.”

“But I did,” she hits back, looking at him now. Her eyes are shiny with tears, her hands clinging to her camera desperately. “I had this awful feeling in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe, all fucking night—only I thought it was because Jonathan’s brother was missing. I was so busy looking for him with my dad that I wasn’t there for Barb. Now she’s gone. And I knew.”

Her face is illuminated in the pale headlights passing on the other side of the road, and for a moment her eyes seem to flicker, blaze, change. Her irises, once a green that reminded Billy of the Californian sea on a rare, grey day, are now golden. He does a double take, almost swerving the car in the process, but when he looks again they look as they always did: murky ocean eyes half-hiding behind dark lashes and unruly bangs.

“Shit,” he curses, forcing his eyes back on the road. “Your eyes.”

She frowns, paling and pulling down the overhead mirror with enough force that Billy is worried she might break his damn car. “What?”

“Nothin’, I—” he stutters, blinking and looking at her again. Had he imagined it? Was it the light off the other car? “I thought you had something in your eye. It was nothin’.”

He pulls into the clearing where the trailer stands, lonely and grey against the black lake. The tyres roll against the gravel unevenly, the engine cutting out and replaced with silence.

“Your dad home?” he asks, just as he had the previous night. The trailer’s windows are dark, the house empty and solitary where it stands. He can’t imagine calling this place a home, even with his own circumstances.

“No,” she replies, unfastening her seat-belt slowly. “You wanna come in for a while? I could use that drink, now.”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips as he takes the keys out of the ignition and grabs the bottle of whisky from beside him. “Sure. Why not?”

* * *

The trailer isn’t as small as it looks from the outside. It’s cosy, earthy, and he can imagine Frances pottering about on it on a Saturday, drinking coffee with the patterned curtains closed to block out the low winter sun. Still, he can’t imagine sleeping in this thing alone. They’re basically in the middle of nowhere. He can’t even smell cow shit out here, and the lake is eerily still even in the wind.

“Your dad work a lot?” He places the whiskey on the kitchen counter and she pulls out two glasses from the oak cupboards, standing on her tip-toes and arching her back to reach.

“Yeah. I’m used to it now.”

“You don’t get scared out here alone?” he teases, leaning against the counter.

She pours the whiskey carefully and slides his tumbler towards him, taking a sip of her own. If the burn fazes her, she doesn’t show it. “I’m always scared. Doesn’t make a difference if I’m out here or in the middle of town.”

“Because of Barb?”

She shrugs. Her cheeks are flushed from the short walk between the car and the trailer, making the small cut on her cheek appear redder than it did before. “Because of a lot of things. You need ice for that bruise?”

He had forgotten about it for the first time tonight. He touches it now as if to remind himself, trying to hide his wince as he realises how tender it is. “I’m good,” he says despite himself.

She rolls her eyes, kneeling down to rifle through the freezer. When she comes up, she’s holding frozen peas. She chucks them at him, and he catches reluctantly, pressing them gently to his face. “Thanks.”

“So, where did you move from?” she questions, leading him to the couch and sitting down, whiskey in hand. He follows, sitting beside her, perhaps a little closer than he had meant to. He doesn’t make an effort to budge down.

“California.”

“Yeah?” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s a little different than Hawkins. What was it like?”

“It was …,” he sighs, unable to find the right words. Nobody had asked him that yet, really. Nobody in Hawkins cared about Billy’s old life. Sometimes, it no longer feels as though it exists at all. “It was home. I basically lived on the beach. Had bonfires most nights, spent my days out in the sun. There was always something happening, too. Carnivals, fairs, gigs. You’d love it. You'd get some amazing photographs.”

“Yeah,” she smiles, hanging on his every word. He can’t help but look at her again, at her eyes that he’d been sure had changed. They were still green, still the closest he could get to his favourite place. “I bet. You must miss it like crazy.”

“More than anything,” he admits, sipping his drink to distract himself from the sudden attention. “What about you, you lived here your whole life?”

“Actually, I lived in New York for a while when I was a kid. My mom still lives there with her new husband.”

“Did you like it?”

She shakes her head, leaning back into the couch as her eyes glaze over for a moment, remembering. “I did. Now, it just reminds me of things I’d rather forget.”

“Like?”

“I think I’ve told you enough of my little sob story tonight,” she laughs, but Billy can tell it isn’t genuine. He can’t help but wonder if they’re more alike than he thought, looking at the cut on her cheek again. Did the chief do that? He seems to walk around town in an eternally foul mood: it wouldn’t necessarily surprise him if he took it out on her.

He finds himself inching closer to her, so close that their foreheads are almost touching. “I like talking to you. You’re the only person in this shitty town I can stand to be around, even if you are all gloom and doom.”

“Gee, thanks.” Sarcasm drips from her words without conviction. He can hear her breath coming out quicker as he looks down at her soft, pink lips longingly. She doesn’t close the distance, so he takes it upon himself.

Their lips press together for only a moment before her hands are on his stomach, pushing him away. She stands up, crossing her arms over her chest as though she’s naked rather than fully clothed with layers of knitwear. Her face is bright red, her eyes blazing. “What the fuck, Billy?”

“What?” he replies cluelessly, raking his hand through his hair and pretending as though his cheeks aren’t heating up in embarrassment. He can’t remember the last time he was rejected.

“What?” Frances repeats in disbelief. “God, what was this? Were you just trying to get into my pants the entire fucking time? Driving me home, getting back my camera, listening to me when I talk about my dead friend and my cheating boyfriend because I’m a fucking idiot who thought that maybe you weren’t so bad, that maybe you actually gave a shit?”

He’s speechless, licking his dry lips as he tries to figure out what to say. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Why would I ever want that? I just ended a two-year relationship with my best fucking friend.”

“And I’m great at rebound sex,” he answers as though it’s obvious. He can feel anger beginning to bubble in him, not because he’s mad at her words, but because she’s yelling—and he still doesn’t know why. “Why else am I hear, Fran? You wanna talk about feelings all night while you braid my damn hair? Cuddle by the fuckin’ fire with a mug of hot cocoa, marshmallows on top? You’re not stupid. You know I’m not that guy.”

Tears are pricking her eyes again, and this time she doesn’t blink them back. He’s not sure she even knows she’s crying in her own, blind rage. “So all of this was just for sex? All of it?”

Billy softens at the sadness in her voice, his elbows digging painfully into his thighs as he puts his head in his hands and takes a breath. “No, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan all this just to screw you. I just … When you invited me in, I thought—”

“Thought you’d shoot your shot,” she finished bitterly. “Of course you did; of course opening my door to you automatically meant opening my legs, too. You’re a fucking asshole, Billy. I don’t know why I let you in. I don’t know why I let any of this happen. Just get out.”

“Fran—” he says desperately, standing up from the couch and walking around the coffee table to meet her.

“Get out, Billy!” Frances shouts. “Get the fuck out!”

She pushes him backwards with more force than he’d been expecting, sending him flying straight into the door. It falls open against his weight, and he falls with it, landing on the porch. His defeated, shocked body is illuminated by the white porch light.

Frances stands in the doorway, speechless. Clearly, she had been expecting this as much as he had.

“Jesus!” he yells when he’s able to find the words. It hurts him, being treated this way. He could take it from his father, his friends, the shitheads he beats up at school and parties, but he hadn’t been expecting her to touch him like that—and it’s clear she hadn’t meant to by the way she looks at him as though he’s broken, as though she’s broken him, though she can’t know what this means to him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?”

“Fuck you,” she whispers weakly as he pulls himself up, using the fence as support. “Leave me alone, Hargrove.”

“Gladly,” he responds, his upper lip curling in contempt. His hands are balled into fists as he marches away, barely sparing her a glance as he slams the door of the Camaro shut after sliding into the driver’s seat. His tyres struggle against the gravel, spitting out dust and dirt as he speeds away, watching her retreating figure standing in the threshold of the trailer in the rear-view mirror.


	7. 07.

The cabin is still a mess when Frances returns the next morning. The windows are covered with cardboard and duct tape, and inside, the floorboards are scratched and worn in places they hadn’t been before.

“Dad?” she calls when she finds the kitchen and living room empty. “El?”

There’s no response beside the sound of the wind raging through the woods outside. The TV screen is grey with static, and both El and Hopper’s bedroom doors are open, revealing two empty rooms. Frances’s stomach twists in worry. El isn't allowed outside of this cabin, ever. Where the hell are they?

Piles of files and papers are scattered about all over the floor, sitting beside a floorboard that had been pulled up. Frances kneels, inspecting them. They are all stamped with ****Hawkins Laboratories**** , typewritten, ink seeping into the damp from their time under the floorboards. Frances has never seen them before—and yet perhaps she should have, because she finds one of her familiar baby photos with a record under the label ****002****. Beside it is the date of birth: _her_ date of birth.

“What the fuck?” she whispers, searching through the other papers frantically. She must have misunderstood, she thinks, until she stumbles across adoption papers with her name written in bold. The date of adoption is only a few months after her birth, and both her mother and father have signed them beside a name she doesn't recognise. 

Her mind races, trying to conjure up images she might have seen in her old photo albums of her mother pregnant. There were plenty of her with Sarah, but none, she realises, with her. She didn't have that many baby photos either, other than the one in front of her and then ones of her a little older. Her mother said she had surgery when she was little and they didn't want to remember how hard it was with pictures. Now she wonders if that was a lie.

She goes back to the lab records, tears pricking her eyes as she traces a list of symptoms scrawled in black ink beneath the heading ****002****. _Golden eyes, advanced mental and physical capabilities developing more quickly than in other subjects, surgery performed to remove protrusions in the shoulders, translucent skin, abnormalities in blood sample._ She hadn’t been crazy in thinking her eyes had changed. There really was something wrong with her.

“Dad?” she yells again, throwing the papers down. She can’t look at them anymore. “Dad?”

No reply, but she hadn’t expected one. She runs out of the cabin, suppressing a sob as she scans the woods to see if he’s nearby. The woods are silent, empty. A fog lingers around the trees eerily. She’s alone.

* * *

Florence, her father's assistant, peers over her glasses with an alarmed expression as Frances marches through the police station, searching desperately for a glimpse of her father.

“Morning, Frannie,” she greets cautiously, standing from her desk and frowning. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“No,” she answers, tears staining her flushed cheeks as she checks his office. It’s empty. “Where is my father? Where’s Hopper?”

“I don’t know, honey. It’s a Saturday: his day off.”

“Can you see if he’s answering his radio? It’s urgent.”

Florence takes her glasses off to look at Frances properly. “He didn’t come in this morning. He isn’t working today. What’s wrong? Are you in trouble, sweetie?"

“Can you _please_ just try to catch him on his fucking radio?” she snaps, slapping her hands against the front desk angrily.

There must be something in her eyes, because Florence pales and sits down in submission, grabbing her radio with shaky hands. Frances might feel guilty if she wasn’t so hysterical. “Station to Hopper, do you copy?” When a reply doesn’t come, she clicks the call button again. “Hopper, do you copy? I have your daughter here. She’s very insistent on speaking to you. Over.”

Nothing. Frances’s shoulders drop in defeat, and she wipes her damp cheeks, realising only now that Callahan is watching her from his desk, a donut in his hand. He looks entertained by the whole ordeal, and she shoots him a scowl.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Florence apologises with a shrug. “Have you tried the Byers’ house?”

“No,” she says weakly, forcing a small smile. “Sorry, Flo. Thank you for trying.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you,” Fran nods, turning around and inhaling. She falters when she sees a familiar face. Billy is being pulled in by Powell, hands behind his back in handcuffs. When he looks up, he freezes. He’s a mess, his eyes red-rimmed and tired, his bruise now a violent green on his cheek. His hair is disheveled, too, and his jacket hangs off his shoulders. 

“Flo,” Powell calls as they pass, barely acknowledging Frances. “Get Neil Hargrove down here. His boy was caught driving under the influence.”

Frances wants to leave, to carry on finding her dad, but her legs won’t take her out of the station. She can’t help but feel as though this is her fault, as though what happened last night has led Billy here. She sighs. “Powell, wait. I wanna post his bail.”

“Sorry, kid, but that’s not how it works,” Powell responds as Billy looks over his shoulder in surprise. He’s forced into a chair at the desk, where Powell unlocks his cuffs roughly.

“Then do me a favour. Please?”

“Your dad ain’t gonna be too happy if he catches you trying to bail out drunk drivers, Frances. You know this kid?”

“Yes,” she says, “and I’m sure that there is some way this can be resolved without getting his father involved or keeping him here. You’ve learned your lesson, right, Billy?”

Billy looks up in surprise. “Yeah, right.” His voice is gruff as though he’s just woken up.

“That’s nice an’ all, but the law’s the law. Plus, he's underage,” Powell says, sounding amused by the whole situation. “Your dad around, kid?”

“No, but he can vouch for Hargrove,” she answers, her voice strained with desperation. “Please, Powell. I’ll owe you one. It’s his first offense, right? No one was harmed?”

Powell glances at Billy doubtfully, but she knows he’s thinking about saving his ass from all the paperwork he’d have to do otherwise. “Yeah. Alright,” he caves, causing Billy to relax in his seat. “I’ll cut you a deal. I let the kid go, don’t ever catch him drunk driving again, and we don’t need to press charges.”

“Deal—”

“—And you can repay me in donuts and coffee. For a year.”

“Great.” She grabs Billy by the arm before he can change his mind, pulling his unsteady form up from the chair. He props himself up against her, and she can smell whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. “Flo, cancel the call. This was all a big misunderstanding.”

Florence looks bewildered from behind her desk as they pass her, Billy almost tripping over his own feet on the way out. When they’re free of the station, he pulls away from her, using the wall as support instead. “What was all that for?”

“I was doin’ you a favour,” Frances replies shortly. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask for your help, Frances,” he spits, though there is no anger in his eyes the way there was last night. Now he just looks tired and numb.

She rolls her eyes, her jaw clenching. “I don’t have time for this. Just don’t try to fuckin’ drive home, okay? Get a cab or somethin’.”

“Fran,” he calls as she’s about to go. “That’s it? You’re just gonna fuck off again after what happened last night?”

She softens, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry for last night. I’m really fucking sorry, Billy.”

His brows furrow at this, and he straightens up, finding his balance. “What was it?”

“I don’t know,” she replies honestly, remembering the record she’d found. _Golden eyes._ _Advanced development. Abnormalities._ “There’s something wrong with me. I … I think there’s something really wrong with me. I didn’t mean—I’m just sorry, okay?”

She turns to leave, but Billy grabs her wrist to stop her. “Wait. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you. I guess I’m just not used to … y’know, talking to girls without fooling around. I meant what I said, though. I like talking to you. It was never about trying to screw you.”

Tears spill over her lids, and she looks away, wiping her eyes quickly. “God, how is it you always catch me at my absolute worst?”

His blue eyes soften. “It’s a talent.”

“Yeah.” She forces out a laugh, inhaling and looking up to try and stop the tears. “Sorry. You want me to walk you home or call you a cab or somethin’?”

At the word ‘home’, he stiffens, his lips pursing into a harsh line. “No. I don’t wanna go home. If my dad sees me like this …”

She nods, though she doesn’t really understand. “I need to keep looking for my dad, but the trailer’s empty. You can sleep it off there.”

“Yeah?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck as though he’s reluctant to accept the help.

“Yeah,” she replies, sighing. “I’ll walk you. Maybe my dad’ll turn up there.” 


	8. 08.

08.  
Any hope that Hopper is in the trailer is lost as soon as Frances and Billy reach the drive. It's empty, the way Frances had left it this morning. For a moment, she's glad: her anger and confusion has turned to a jagged hurt that rips through her stomach and chest each time she breathes.

She's adopted. From a lab. Everything she thought she knew is gone.

Billy is sober enough to walk himself up the steps onto the porch, though he grabs the wooden railing for support as he waits for her to unlock the door. She does, holding it open for him before she follows him in silently.

She places the keys down on the counter, sighing and scraping her hand through her hair. She has no idea what to do now. She just hopes to God that wherever he is, El is there, too.

She runs the tap to busy her hands, filling a glass with water and handing it to Billy. "Here. Drink this."

Billy must be able to sense her foul mood because he doesn't argue, taking a few big gulps before putting it down and looking at her.

"You didn't have to do all this for me."

"It's nothing," she replies, biting her nails distractedly. "You can sleep it off in my room. Come on."

He follows her into her bedroom, a tiny box room with a single bed. The walls are covered in pictures she's taken over the years, starting with a toothless, five-year-old Will Byers and ending with a sunset over the ravine. Her clothes are scattered around the floor, and she rushes to pick them up, trying not to blush at the fact that her bra is among the pile.

When she turns around, she realises that Billy isn't even looking. His attention is on an old photo of she and Sarah, the one she keeps on her desk. It's one of the last ones they took together — her last real good day, just after her diagnosis, when their parents took them to Coney Island. Sarah's hair hasn't yet fallen out from the chemo, and nobody who didn't already know her would be able to tell she was sick. She had fun that day. So did Frances.

"This you?" Billy questions, his thumb running over Frances's eleven-year-old face.

"Yeah," Frances whispers, pulling the photo from his hands and putting it back quickly. It's too late, though: he asks a moment later.

"Who's the kid?"

Frances inhales shakily, unable to meet his gaze. "My sister." She wonders as she says it if she even has a right to call her that now: all those years spent believing they were 50% of one another, and it was a lie.

"Where is she now? With your mom?"

"Gone," Frances says, shoulders burning and eyes stinging with more tears. She is sick of crying. "She's gone."

Suddenly, she can hear a thumping, constant pulse. Another one joins in a moment later, the sound consuming her so that she has to grip onto her dresser for support.

"Fran?" Billy asks, concern in his voice. He's talking too loud and it hurts her ears. His hands find her shoulders, and a pain shoots through her in protest so that she has to move away.

Her chest is constricting, her breathing laboured as she tries to ground her feet on the carpeted floor again. Her head is throbbing, and even though she can't see them, she is sure it's happening again, this time worse: her eyes are changing.

"Fran? You okay?" Billy asks again. "Fran? Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"Just shut up," she demands through gritted teeth, glancing at him for only a second.

A second is all he needs to see. He stumbles backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed. "Fuck, Fran. Your eyes."

She squeezed them shut, collapsing to the floor and gripping onto her dresser as though it's the only thing keeping her from falling through the ground and soil beneath. "I don't know what's wrong with me." Her voice doesn't sound like her own, distorted, echoing.

"Do I call an ambulance?" Billy asks desperately.

"No!" Frances shouts. Her entire body is trembling.

Billy is knelt in front of her now, his eyes wide in fear. She can't look at him, can't open her eyes at all. She's scared of what will happen if she lets him see again.

"Tell me what to do," he begs. "Tell me how to help."

She shakes her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. The two pulses have sped up frantically and she can't help but wince at his deep voice in her sensitive ears.

"Fran," he whispers. "Frances, listen to me. You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

His hand finds her knee, and this time she doesn't pull away as he traces soft lines across the bones jutting out. His voice is quietening again, and so are the heartbeats.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." The sob falls out of her without permission, forcing her eyes open.

"It's okay. Your eyes—They're back to normal, see?"

The pain is easing in her shoulders and chest. She bites down on her lip to stop it from trembling, her fingernails clawing the carpet when she no longer as the strength to grip the dresser. When she finally has the courage to look at Billy, he shuffles closer, leaning over to tuck her hair behind her ears.

"You're okay."

"No," she says. "No, I'm fucking not. Look at me. I'm— I don't even know. I don't know, Billy."

He knows there's nothing he can say to this. She sees it in the way he sighs in defeat and pulls himself against the dresser so that they're sitting side by side. He puts his arm over her shoulder cautiously, pulling her into his chest when she doesn't pull away. The smell of cigarettes and whiskey stings her nostrils, and yet still it calms her as her tears soak into his shirt.

"You a werewolf or somethin', angel?" he mumbles into her hair, only half-joking.

She closes her eyes, knowing that if she moves from his arms now she'll have to look at him again and figure this out. "When's the next full moon?"

His low chuckle hums through him and into her bones. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"I don't know how," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "I ... I found adoption papers this morning with my name on them. Hopper isn't my real dad and I had no idea. He never thought to tell me."

"Jesus."

"I don't know who I am. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?"

"Shit," he says, just like he did when she told him about Barb. Only this time, he didn't feel unreachable, out of touch. Now he was holding her, his fingers running through her hair, her hands in his lap. Now they are tangled up together and she never wants to untangle. "Shit, Fran, I'm sorry."

For the first time, she pulls away to look up at him. "Aren't you afraid of me?"

His expression softens as his rough hand cups her damp cheek. "No, I'm not afraid of you."

"But what you saw ... What I did to you last night."

"I've seen monsters, Fran," he mutters. "Hell, I live with one. You're not one of them. Trust me."

"What if you're wrong?"

He smirks, but not in his usual, arrogant way. This is gentle, caring, warm. "I pride myself on always being right."

She sinks back into him. It is hours before she resurfaces again.


	9. 09.

"God, what am I doing?" Frances asks. She and Billy have been sat on the floor for an immeasurable amount of time, and her muscles are beginning to cramp. She had needed his comfort so much earlier that she hadn't thought about it. Now, the haze of anxiety was easing enough for her to think clearly, and the memory of last night begins to torture her until sitting in Billy's arms no longer feels right.

She pulls herself up from him, leaving him to sit with his back against the dresser alone. He watches intently as she smooths out her clothes and wipes the smudged mascara from under her eyes.

"You tell me," he responds lowly.

"I don't know why I keep doing this. I mean, you're Billy fucking Hargrove, and I keep falling apart in front of you like an idiot. You must eat this shit up."

He frowns, pulling himself up slowly. "You think I'm enjoying this?"

"I don't know," Frances shrugs, pacing into the living room so she can distance herself from him. "It's something to laugh about with your friends, right? The chief's daughter is a freak, had a panic attack right in front of you, not to mention she's fucking adopted and her eyes change colour."

"Jesus, Fran, is that really what you think of me?" He's still tired, though no longer drunk, and his denim jeans hang off him from spending so long in them.

"I don't know. None of this makes sense to me." She can't look at him anymore. What he must think of her after the things he'd seen. "I ... I need to go find my dad. You're welcome to take a nap while I'm gone, but you probably shouldn't be here when I get back."

He rolls his eyes, grabbing his denim jacket aggressively and marching past her. "Don't worry, angel. I know when I'm not welcome."

"Billy—"

He places his hand on the door, scowling at her as he turns. "Save it. I can't take this hot an' cold thing. You want me gone? I'm gone."

"Billy, wait," she pleads, causing him to freeze. "Just ... Please don't tell anyone about what you saw. Please."

This earns a scoff that's filled with hatred hatred. "Please, angel. Don't flatter yourself. I won't waste another second talkin' about you at all."

With that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him. Frances flinches at the sound, closing her eyes as her stomach fills with regret—whether it is for pushing him away or letting him too close to begin with, she doesn't know.

* * *

Hopper's car isn't on Joyce's drive, and neither is Jonathan's. Any hope of talking to either of them is gone the moment that Frances reaches the Byers'. Still, she knocks on the door timidly, unsurprised when Joyce is the one to answer. She is surprised by the state of her though, with wide, fear-filled eyes and a slight tremble to her fingers as she holds the door open reluctantly.

"Frances," she greets, her eyes darting from Frances to the empty drive. "Jonathan isn't home right now, sweetie."

"That's okay. I was hoping that maybe you might have seen my dad this morning. I can't find him anywhere."

"You just missed him, actually," she says, causing Frances to breathe a sigh of relief. "He, uh, had a case to get to. I'm sure he'll be home later on."

Joyce is already closing the door, and Frances has to put her foot in the threshold to stop her completely. "Wait, Joyce."

Joyce shuffles impatiently, widening the door only slightly. It's clear she wants her gone, just like everyone else she's talked to today.

"My father, was he with anyone?"

Frances watches carefully for a reaction, but if she thought there was a chance that Joyce ever had an inkling about El, she knows it's impossible now. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Like who? Officer Callahan?"

"No ... Never mind." She shakes her head. "Is everything okay? Y'know, with Will?"

"Everything's fine, he's just a little under the weather," she reassures, though her smile doesn't meet her eyes. She hasn't seen her this nervous since last year, and the thought makes her stomach twist. "Listen, I'm a little busy—"

"No, yeah. Sorry to bother you," she swallows, taking a step back. "Just ... if you see Hop, tell him to call me or something. I'll be at the trailer."

"I'll tell him, honey." She gives a wave and has shut the door before Frances has time to thank her.

Despite the fact that Frances knows her father is at least still in Hawkins, she can't help but feel dread gnawing at her. Something is wrong, something worse than what has already happened today, and until she finds her father—if she can still call him that at all—she has no idea how to right it. All she can do is continue treading through Hawkins, cold, numb, and alone.


	10. 10.

Billy is breathless by the time he reaches his car, glad to find that it is still where he left it abandoned on the side of the road after being pulled over by Powell. He slides in, slamming the door with enough force that he's surprised the window doesn't shatter. He still has anger to burn off, and he hits the steering wheel with his palms until his skin stings.

 _All of this for Frances fucking Hopper_ , he thinks to himself with contempt as he puts a tape in the record player and turns the volume all the way up. He realises soon after that the music is a mistake; his head is throbbing from a night spent drinking, which he still hasn't slept off. Pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, he shouts a series of curse words, thinking again of what he has seen, haunted by golden eyes and pale skin.

For whatever reason, he can't get her out of his head, couldn't even before he saw her eyes change colour. For nights on end he's been trying not to think of her, always failing. He doesn't know what it is, if it's the way her curly bangs fall into her eyes or the way she cradles her camera like it's her child—he has never loved anyone or anything as much as she loves that fucking camera—or the way she says his name as though he's a real person, with real value; a person who's more than just the new keg king or a dick of a step-brother or a fuck up of a son. _Billy_. He's _Billy_ , or _Hargrove_ if she's teasing, and when his name falls out of those soft, pink lips, eyes burning into him, it's like for once he has been seen, heard; like he has never been real, existed, until now.

And yet she takes it all back in an instant when she makes assumptions. Each time he feels as though she sees something good in him, each time he reaches out, she kicks him back down again, throwing at him all of the things he really is. And it's not her he's mad at: he's given her no reason to trust him. Better for both of them if he never fucking does. He knows who he is, knows how he must seem to her as he walks the halls with his chest puffed out like a peacock. He can't blame her for pushing him away.

He inhales, starting the engine and driving home. He doesn't rush, instead trying to drag it out as much as possible. He is still confused and angry, his head still swimming in whiskey and images he doesn't understand, and there is nothing good waiting for him at home. He finds that out almost as soon as he walks through the door.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Neil is on him before Billy reaches the fourth step up to his room, his hands on his hips and his forehead lined with rage.

"I stayed at a friends. I thought I'd told you yesterday I wasn't gonna be home."

"Bullshit," he replies, causing Billy's grip on the banister to tighten. "You stink. You've been drinking again."

"I haven't."

"Excuse me?" Neil tilts his head, eyes dark.

"I haven't been drinking, sir," Billy replies, as composed as he can be, though he knows what's coming.

He points a finger at his shoes as though Billy is a dog who won't obey his master's owners. "Come down here."

Billy does, stepping down until he's level with his father. The stairs creak under his heavy boots.

"Where have you been?"

"At a friends, like I said."

In an instant, he's pinned against the wall, his spine colliding painfully with the plaster. Neil raises his fist, his expression falling a moment later when he sees Billy's bruise from the previous day. If he hits him again now, people will get suspicious. He lowers it, though his forearm stays locked painfully against Billy's neck.

"We don't lie in this house," he spits, his face so close to Billy's that his hot breath hits his face. "You better stop lying to me, son. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," Billy answers, his breathing laboured and his voice strained. "Yes, sir."

Neil's grip releases, and Billy coughs, rubbing his neck and avoiding eye contact.

"I want you to go and pick up your sister. She went to the arcade earlier today and she's expecting you. You'll come straight home afterwards."

Billy wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn't dare: not this time. He nods, mumbling his acquiescence, and heads back out of the door before his father can touch him again.

* * *

Billy rests his arm out of the window as he parks outside the arcade, sunglasses covering his tired eyes. He sighs when he sees Maxine on her way to him, Lucas Sinclair watching her from the door. She's gripping her skateboard, her freckled face to the floor.

She gets in without a word. He doesn't look at her: if he does, he's not sure what he will do.

"What the hell I tell you?" he asks quietly, the threat clear in his voice.

"I'm not late," Max replies, red hair falling over her face like a veil of protection.

"You know what I'm talking about."

She stutters, nervous—as she should be. "It's a small town, okay? We weren't hanging out."

"Well, you know what happens when you lie." There is no longer any emotion in his voice, exhaustion stealing any anger he might have had otherwise. It's as though he is watching himself from outside of the car, an actor reading the lines from a script: lines written by his father, no doubt. Sometimes he sounds so much like him that he understands why he is the way he is, can feel the bubbling anger that needs to be released at the expense of the people around him: both of them built like grenades, always at risk of exploding and tearing apart anything that dares to fall into their path.

"I'm not lying," she insists.

Billy finally turns his attention to her, the sister he never asked for, never wanted. "You're a little shit, Maxine."

"And you're a monster," she mumbles under her breath, just loud enough that Billy hears. The word causes him to freeze, and he's glad he's wearing his sunglasses, glad she can't see his eyes.

"What'd you say to me?"

"You're a monster," she repeats, louder, her gaze falling back to the arcade as though she's debating running back into it.

He can't respond, doesn't know how. _I've seen monsters, Fran. Hell, I even live with one._ Frances had been afraid that she was a monster. It hadn't occurred to Billy until now that he already was one, that he didn't just share a house with one, but a body, too. 

"Screw you," he retorts as his hand finds the gear stick, but the insult is weak and he knows it.

His gaze falls in front of him as he turns the keys, and he falters. Frances is running across the street, heading into the arcade, probably still looking for her father. His eyes follow her, and he pushes his sunglasses onto his head to get a better look.

Her face is blotchy and pink, her hair a tangled mess that ruffles in the wind. She's buried in a thick scarf and fleece jacket, face half-hidden, though he can see even from here the redness in her puffy eyes. She hasn't noticed him or his car, and he's glad.

"Isn't that Frances Hopper?" Maxine asks, following Billy's gaze.

"Yeah."

"Are you two dating or something?"

He shakes his head, freeing himself from her as he puts the car in gear and presses his foot on the pedal. "No," he says, watching her figure retreat into the arcade as they begin to drive. "Never gonna happen."

"Why not?" Maxine presses, frowning.

Billy sighs as they round the corner. "She's not my type, alright?"

"Yeah, right," she mutters. 

He's glad when she doesn't pry, and even gladder that she doesn't see through his lie.


	11. 11.

Billy has been driving around Hawkins for the better part of two hours. He couldn’t sleep, his thoughts tossing between his father’s abuse and everything that has happened with Frances. The night is pitch-black, the Camaro speeding past orange streetlights and merging shadows—and it’s peaceful. He doesn’t have his music turned on, doesn’t need it so much in the dark. All he needs his the whir of the Camaro’s engine whispering to him softly and the feeling of farms and forests passing him by. He can almost pretend he isn’t in Hawkins anymore in the darkness, almost pretend that the grey, uneven concrete beneath his tyres is that of a Californian road.

His headlights catch movement in his peripheral vision, breaking him out of his daydream. A silhouette is walking down the road, body half concealed by trees. As he gets closer, he recognises the brown, knotted hair and tattered, loose denim jeans. Frances. Her breath is visible against the blackness, her face washed out by the car’s lights. Of course he can still stumble across her here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, where there isn’t even a side-walk between the woods and the road.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses under his breath, pulling up at the side of the road and opening his door. The cold bites at his fingers, and he shivers.

She doesn’t so much as look at him, continuing her determined tread, though there's no way she hasn't heard the Camaro.

“Frances,” he calls irritably, stepping out of the car and leaving the door to swing open as he follows her. She spares him a scowl over her shoulder, her arms wrapped around her torso tightly. “Frances, what the fuck are you doing walking out here at 3 am?”

“It doesn’t concern you,” she hits back, her voice hoarse.

“Frances!” he yells louder, stopping in his tracks and dragging his hair through his curls in frustration. “Will you fucking stop and talk to me? What are you doing? You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“Like you care,” she spits, finally turning around to face him. Her eyes are glassy, numb, her cheeks and nose flushed a bright red from the cold and her lips an unhealthy shade of blue. “Were you following me or something?”

“Oh, yeah, I was following you,” he mocks, rolling his eyes. “What else would I be doing at 3 am?”

She doesn’t answer, blinking dumbly.

“I was drivin’, okay? I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, you can carry on drivin’,” she mutters, burying her face further into her scarf, “and I’ll carry on walkin’.”

“No, you won’t,” he counters, gesturing to the car still sitting with the driver’s door wide open. “Get in.”

“No.”

“No?" he repeats in disbelief. "You gonna carry on walking until you get murdered or freeze to death?”

“Oh, give me a break, Hargrove.” Her upper lip curls in contempt as she takes a step towards him. “You wanna drive me home again, see if it’ll be a case of third-time lucky? Whatever this weird fucking act is where you pretend to give a shit, just drop it. I don’t trust you. I’ll never be stupid enough to trust you.”

“I don’t care if you trust me, Fran. Just get in the damn car and let me take you home. You can be mad at me for whatever imaginary scenario you’ve made up in your head tomorrow.”

“It’s not imaginary and I’m not stupid.”

“Coulda’ fooled me,” he spat back, anger beginning to simmer in his stomach.

“Oh, fuck you,” she says, about to turn away. “I’ve seen how you are with other girls. I know exactly what game you’re playing.”

His voice brings her back, unbearably loud in the otherwise silent night even to his own ears. He hopes to fucking God there are no houses nearby, because they’d be sure to hear their screaming match.

“No, Fran, fuck _you_. If you pay as much attention to me as you claim to, you’d realise there’s no one else’s bullshit I’d put up with like this. You think I go out of my way to take other girls home when they're drunk? Huh?” he questions, his voice thick with passion now. “You think I break into cars to get their shit back from their boyfriends? You think I’d even _be_ here right now if all I wanted was to get in your pants? You’ve made it perfectly clear that that’s never gonna happen and I’m still fucking here. I still give a shit. Fuck knows why, but I do.”

The words are slipping out of him uncontrollably now, words he’s imagined saying, words he wishes he could have said earlier. “Maybe I’m a dick and a man-whore and whatever else you think of me. You wanna push me away and hate me for it? Do it. Hell, I’ll even let you, but you are not wandering around the fucking woods at 3 am in the freezing cold, no matter how much you hate me, so get in the damn car before I make you.”

He’s breathless when he finally finishes, and for a moment, so is she. Her eyes are shiny in the moonlight, cloaked by her damp eyelashes as she looks up at him. Somehow, they are closer together than Billy had noticed before. “But you tried to kiss me,” she whispered, almost as though trying to convince herself rather than him. “You said you wanted rebound sex.”

His hands slap his sides in frustration. “And you rejected me. I could have left it at that, ran off to some other chick who wanted me, but I didn’t, did I? I’m still here. You think I like stickin’ around when a girl throws me through a door and rejects me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.” Her expression flickers with doubt, but her voice is weak, now, and he can tell she wants to believe him.

Billy’s eyes lower to his feet as he replies, “I think you know a hell of a lot more than most.”

Frances sighs, her arms tightening around herself as the wind picks up. Billy uses his denim jacket to guard himself from it, but it cuts into his clothes and whips his hair across his face.

“I’m not getting in your car,” she says again finally, her gaze locked on something past him.

“Jesus,” he exclaims, “have you got a death wish or are you just being stubborn on purpose now?”

“I need to find them!” Her voice rises in frustration and panic.

Understanding dawns on Billy slowly, and his expression softens. “Fran—”

“No, Billy, you don’t get it.” She takes a step back from him, and just like that, they are as far apart as they were to begin with, the moment of quiet lost in the wind. “Please. I need to find them.”

Her eyes flash golden, and he wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been looking. He knows to expect it now, and though he doesn’t react, his stomach twists. “You’re right: I don’t get it, so talk to me. Who’s ‘them’?”

“Him, I mean. My dad. I … I can feel it again,” Frances stutters, her hand pressing against her chest as though she is desperate to make him feel it, too. “The feeling in my chest, the dread. I felt it the night that Barb was killed and I ignored it. I can’t ignore it again now. Something is wrong. My dad … my dad is all I have left. If I lose him—”

“Alright,” Billy nods, knowing already how that sentence might end. “Alright, how about we look for him together? I’ll drive you anywhere you wanna go.”

Her attention darts hesitantly into the woods beside them, her teeth chattering as she shrinks into herself. “You wanna help me?”

“Yes, Fran,” his voice is pleading now, “I want to help you.”

“Alright,” she agrees. He can hear the exhaustion gnawing at her in that word alone. “Okay.”

“Alright.” A breath of relief slips from him as he reaches for her shoulder and guides her small frame to the car. Her cheek is like ice even through his shirt as she presses herself into him for warmth. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Have you been out here all night?”

She nods against him as he leads her to the trunk, popping it open and pulling out an old, flannel blanket. He wraps it around her quickly, and to his surprise, she lets him. Her focus is no longer on him, but on the mound of sleeping bags and pillows in the trunk.

“Do you sleep in here?”

Billy can feel his cheeks heat with embarrassment, and he closes the trunk with a slam, guiding Frances to the passenger side. “Sometimes. My house is a shit-show.”

She closes the door, and he can feel her eyes following him as he rounds the car and slips into the driver’s seat. He turns the heater on full-blast as Frances relaxes into her seat, head pressed against the window.

“Where we headed?”

“I don’t know. I’ve looked everywhere … twice. I don’t know where he could be.”

“You been home since earlier today?”

She nods solemnly, clicking on her seat-belt as an afterthought. “Yeah. Twice.”

“Alright,” he sighs, putting the car in gear. “Let’s just drive around, see what happens.”

She seems satisfied with this, and already her lips are gaining back their colour as her shivering resides. “Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she says.

“Yeah. No problem, angel. ‘S nowhere I’d rather be at 3 am.”

* * *

He pulls up in their usual spot overlooking the ravine. The sky is a murky blue as it prepares itself for sunrise, a gentle shower of rain pattering against the windshield. He glances over at Fran, who fell asleep about an hour ago and hasn’t stirred since.

He thought about taking her home and carrying her in, but he knows he’s a clumsy shit when he’s not trying to be, and he doesn’t want to risk waking her. She needs to sleep; it’s clear by the deep purple crescents forming beneath her eyes and the way her lips are pursed into a thin, permanent line.

Carefully, slowly, he reaches over to the backseat and pulls out another blanket, draping it over her. He can’t help but admire her, though he knows he’s stupid for doing it; her freckles, peppered in random places across her forehead and jaw, her neck; the way her eyelashes flutter as she dreams; the way her breath falls rhythmically, in sync with the soft breeze rustling the leaves outside. The soft light paints her skin indigo, and he can just make out the small cut across her cheekbone. His fingers tingle with the need to touch it, but he doesn’t, can’t.

Instead, he shakes his head at his own stupidity, as if that might empty his brain of the thoughts—only it’s not his brain that’s the problem: it’s that knot in his chest that makes him feel as though he is either falling or flying. Either way, he closes his eyes to free himself of her. It doesn’t work. He can smell her, still, lavender and pine buried in his nostrils and clinging to his car, his skin.

It consumes him, and he falls asleep wrapped in her.


	12. 12.

Frances awakens to the blinding midday sun washing out a clear blue sky, and she rubs her eyes in an effort to wake herself up. Beside her, Billy snores lightly, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, his lips puckered ever-so-slightly.

The heater is still on full blast, and his cheeks are flushed, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. She untangles herself from the heap of blankets and turns it down, careful not to wake him.

Then, she remembers why she is here. Hopper. El. They're still gone.

She unfastens her seat-belt and opens the passenger door as quietly as she can. One foot is out when a low rumble sounds from Billy's chest.

"Runnin' out on me when I'm sleepin', angel?" He squints one eye open, his lips curved into a smirk. "That's cold, even for you."

She groans quietly. "Figure you'd be used to it with all the girls you take home."

"Ouch." His arms emerge from his blanket and he stretches with a silent yawn. His hair is flattened from leaning against the headrest for so long.

"You shouldn't have let me fall asleep," she scolds.

"You needed it," he counters, throwing the blankets in the backseat. He no longer wears his jacket, and Frances watches the way his muscles ripple beneath his white shirt. "You wanna see if your dad's home yet?"

"You don't have to keep doing this, Billy," she says quietly, timidly, as she leans back into the car and shuts out the cold. "I'm sure you have better ways of spending your Sunday."

"Undoubtedly, but if I let you out of my sight again, you might have another breakdown and wander the woods like a madwoman." His voice is light as he turns the key in the ignition. "It's no problem, Fran, really."

"Okay," she nods, clipping her seat-belt on again. She doesn't have it in her to argue, especially since her legs are stiff from a day spent wandering all over Hawkins yesterday. "Let's go."

"Alright."

* * *

Despite the circumstances, there is something peaceful about riding in the car with Billy in daylight. Frances's eyes drift dazedly, following each tree they pass, each car that passes them, in an attempt to distract herself from the heaviness in her chest.

Billy taps the steering wheel restlessly, his eyes still swollen with sleep. They have already checked the trailer, and Frances made him wait in the car a few miles back while she checked the cabin in the woods, muttering an excuse about a hunting spot.

"If I ask you why you sleep in here sometimes, will you tell me?" she asks, breaking the silence.

"I told you last night," he replies dismissively, looking out of the window to avoid eye contact. "My house is a shit-show."

"Why?"

He hesitates. Frances sees his blue eyes icing over and she knows before he speaks that she won't be getting an answer. "Just is."

She nods in understanding, licking her dry lips nervously. "The trailer is empty most nights save for me. You're welcome to use it if you need to. You don't need to stay in your car."

"Am I your charity case now, angel?" he growls, jaw clenching.

She exhales in annoyance. "That's not what I meant." 

Her gaze falls outside again, and it freezes there as they pass one of the fields. In the middle of it, sticking out of a thick patch of woods, is Hopper's car.

"There!" she exclaims, urgency causing her voice to rise. "Pull over at this farm. That's my dad's car."

He obeys, taking the next turn down into a narrow lane, where the overgrown branches scratch against the windows. Frances is suddenly glad that it is daylight.

The lane leads to one of the old farms, though there are no animals around save for a couple of horses in the stables. Frances's heart begins to race, and the car has barely stopped before she climbs out of it.

Merrill Wright, the owner of the farm, is standing beside his tractor, chewing on tobacco as he watches the Camaro pull in with only slight interest. There's no sign of anyone else here, her father or otherwise.

"Mr. Wright," Frances greets as she approaches him quickly, motioning to the chief's parked car across the field. "Is my father here?"

She can hear Billy's heavy boots crunching on the gravel as he slams the door shut and follows behind her. In a minute, he is beside her, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Wright eyes him wearily.

"Naw, I haven't seen your daddy. Sorry, Frannie."

"But his car's right there," she pointed desperately, her heart falling into her stomach.

Wright shrugs, shielding his eyes from the sun and scratching his head. "It's been here since yesterday afternoon. No sign of Hop, though. Strange. I called it into the station earlier."

"What did they say?"

"Their guess is as good as mine: they got no clue where he is." Guilt flits over his expression when he realises his own insensitivity. "Look, I'm sure he's fine. You and your boyfriend here wanna come in for some late lunch?"

Frances shakes her head, saying, "He's not my boyfriend," at the same time that Billy mumbles, "We're not together."

"Thought he didn't look nothin' like your Byers boy," Wright states. "Anyhow, you hungry?"

"No, thank you." Frances pastes a shaky smile on her face, ignoring Billy's scowl at the mention of Jonathan. "Do you mind if I have a look around the car?"

Wright gestures to the field with raised eyebrows. "Be my guest. Watch the smell, though. The damn pumpkins are rotting."

Frances is about to set off. Now she stops, frowning. "Wait, what?"

Merrill nods frantically, his lips curling in anger. "I told your daddy a couple a'days ago that that damn Eugene has poisoned my crops. I expect that's why he stopped by. Why he left his car here, I'll never know."

"Eugene?" Billy asks on behalf of both of them, slipping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it.

"Owns the farm by the lake. Had the nerve to accuse me of contaminating it, then mine here goes the same way the next day."

Frances and Billy share a bewildered look before Frances looks back at her fathers car, sitting lonely in the field. "Thanks, Merrill. We won't take too long."

"No skin off my back either way. Take all the time you need."

Frances shoots him a grateful smile before heading across the field. Her sneakers sink into the mud, the smoke from Billy's cigarette curling around her as he catches up with her. "I feel Sorry for your dad, havin' to deal with small town hicks paranoid about some conspiracy against their damn crops."

"That and underage drunk drivers, right?"

"Lucky he didn't have to deal with me."

She rolls her eyes.

"You didn't tell him," Billy points out after a moment, puffing his cigarette again.

She stops, turning around in confusion. "What?"

"The farmer. When he mentioned Byers, you didn't tell him he's not your boyfriend anymore."

"I have bigger things to worry about," she says, her face deadpan. 

His usual smirk dances on his lips, but in his eyes something darker than just teasing glistens. "Yet you had no problem correcting him when he assumed I was your guy."

She scoffs, shaking her head. "You did the exact same thing." 

He shrugs it off, adjusting the collar of his jacket. "I'm just sayin', it's interesting is all. Where is Byers, anyways? Shouldn't he be the one helpin' you with all this?"

Distracted, Frances covers her mouth with her scarf as they reach the infected plants. Merrill had been right: the pumpkins are turning a tar-like shade of black, sinking into the festering soil. The smell is the worst part of it though: it reminds Frances of decaying corpses, causing nausea to settle in her stomach. She swallows to keep down the bile.

"Jesus," Billy coughs, stubbing out his cigarette so he can cover his mouth. "Smells worse than the cow shit."

Frances ignores him, pressing her forehead to the car's glass and peering in. It's empty, her father's coat left abandoned on the seat. There's still a light dusting of frost on the trunk and windshield, proof that it hasn't been touched since this morning.

"You think he went into the woods?"

"I don't know," Frances replies, eyeing the mass of tall pines in front of her. The rotting is endless, the twisting, mouldy vines disappearing deep into the forest. "Worth a look."

Even as she says it, she knows she will not find him. Her chest is tight as she fights for each breath, Billy leading the way into the trees. The pumpkins explode beneath her feet, green and grotesque. She falters when they come to a spade stuck in the ground, though there is no hole in sight. The ground looks the same here as everywhere else: damp and untouched.

She kneels, running her hands over the soil. Her fingers come back black.

"Is that your dad's?" Billy questions from behind her.

"I think so," she whispers. Flies buzz metres away from her on the vines. Something sticky and grey and eerily familiar clings to them, something that makes her feel cold right to her bones. She touches it and an emptiness rolls over her like a violent, black wave.

"I think I know where he is."


End file.
